


hard feelings

by fliipwizard



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), Identity Issues, M/M, Rating May Change, connor is trans, popstar au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fliipwizard/pseuds/fliipwizard
Summary: Connor is an entertainment android developed to be a popstar. He knows he’s supposed to sing what’s been given to him, but his cameraman keeps stealing his attention.I have no idea where this is going aka no more tags I can think of.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> brownie points to whoever i havent talked to about this au but knows whos music and online presence im referencing

Soft beeping always woke with him.

When Connor opened his eyes—every time he opened his eyes after stasis—he’d be staring into a mirror, propped up on his operating table. Digital monitors showed his status and cords connected him to power, to recording devices, and to the table itself.

Tonight he wore pink. Baby pink cropped shirt; tight, high-waisted pants; and an oversized sweater drooping off one shoulder, threatening to fall off entirely. Eyeliner accentuated his doe eyes and gloss formed a pouty sheen on his lips. His microphone, one of the constants, was in his hand as usual.

Something in him purred when he ran his fingers along the fabric of his cardigan. It was soft, slightly fuzzy. He stored the thought for later. He wanted to keep this one.

Wanting, keeping, permanence. He hadn’t shared these words with anyone, not unless it was written for him in his lyrics. He liked the thought. His own room, his own things, his own being.

He wasn’t sure how well those words would go over in his reports, so he skipped them. Ommission wasn’t technically lying, right?

He followed the commands on his HUD sending him toward Studio 3. There he knew he would meet with the team behind his videos and record one. His heels clicked on the floor and his perfect little curls bounced on his head. He liked both of those things. The sound was sharp but controlled, and his hair was soft and fluid. It was almost enough to break his patiently neutral smile as he arrived in the studio.

“Hello, Connor arriving and prepared to record,” he spoke. He rarely used his voice box for speaking, but he needed to signal his status to the team. Even though they could see every detail about him on their screens.

None of them talked to him as he stepped into position. None of them acknowledged he’d said anything. None of them apart for one; he managed the camera. He was less groomed than the others, not expecting to ever be on the other side of his rig. His name badge said “H. Anderson” and Connor decided he liked that name, too.

Connor proceeded to go through the motions of his latest video. The lyrics, poses, facial expressions, movements, and melody were all pre-loaded into his system. He simply had to run the program. They’d even designed a pause for costume and set changes. 

As his body ran the program, he kept his eyes on the cameraman. He could always report to be making eye contact with the camera, and by extension, his fans. But he waited for those times when he made eye contact with H. Anderson.

H. Anderson often focused solely on his work. But the times he looked at Connor, directly at him. Not through the lens. Not through the viewing window… Connor felt little tingles light up his circuits. The video ended with Connor staring into the camera, hands mussing up his hair and face wearing a mask of debautched ecstasy. Connor leveled that gaze instead at H. Anderson, actively disobeying his programmed choreography.

“Cut!”

His gaze went back to his routine as the director yelled.

“Who made it look the wrong way? Goddamnit, now we’ll need to isolate that part or film the whole thing over. Shit.” Connor relaxed into his default, settling a detatched stare at the director. “Jesus. Alright, we need to fix that I guess. Break, then we’ll look at the code again.”

Connor stayed where he was as the rest filed out of the room. He had no other directives. He had no where else to be.

And, interestingly, neither did H. Anderson.

Connor watched him pick apart a bar, one of the ones Connor often sold when he did commercials. He wondered if humans actually liked them. He couldn’t taste a thing.

“Hello, my name is Connor.” He raised both hands to wave at H. Anderson, who looked like he expected anything but the popstar android to start making small talk.

“Uh, hi?” His voice had a similar effect on Connor’s processors that soft sweaters and tapping noises did. Just deeper.

“What is your name?”

“Hank?” 

Connor ran the recording through his center a few times. “Hm. Hank.” He still wasn’t often using his voice for speaking conversation. His hum turned rather more musical than contemplative.

When Connor didn’t continue his conversation, Hank stared a bit and went back to his bar. He picked through half of it before giving up and shoving it back into his pocket.

Connor already had a file on this person. He updated it, now:

  1. First name: Hank
  2. Preferences: Greased food (prediction), facial expression S10
  3. Dislikes: Fingerprints on the camera, protein bars
  4. Preferred course of action: Engage in conversation, offer companionship



Connor spoke again, causing H. Anderson (Hank) to jump. “You seem to enjoy filming my videos. Thank you. I am sending my internal phone number to your device if you would like to know anything else.”

Hank jumped again as his phone buzzed. “I- what?” He went back to staring. “What the fuck does ‘know anything else’ mean?”

“I can choose to be conscious during stasis. If you would like companionship, I would be able to answer.”

Hank slowly put his phone away and stood up, taking a few steps toward the door everyone else had used. “Thanks but no thanks, kid. I’m not desperate enough for this shit.” And with that, he left. Connor was alone in Studio 3, updating his file. 

5\. Status: Lonely (trait in common)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: light android gore mentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im rushing writing this bc i cant rlly form a coherent plot yet so uh, heres this?

“Another one went off programming.”

Connor couldn’t help but repeat the technician’s words over and over again. It was like his central processors were broken, skipping into that recording until it was all he could think of.

“They always act so scared. Gives me the creeps, knowing they’re not real but they look so… alive.”

He saw it once, walking back to his chamber. Another entertainment model. Apparently he’d struggled because he was missing synth skin in places where his chassis had cracked. An android in stasis usually resembled a sleeping human. This one had a new permanent blank stare, dead eyes staring forever at the person who’d dealt the final blow decommissioning him.

Remembering the stare made Connor… glitch. He wasn’t sure what it was, but his body actively rejected the image. He always felt an uncomfortable jolt run through him.

The discomfort was becoming a constant.

But he didn’t dare report it. He’d seen it. That was often the first step for those decommissioned androids.

He played nice. Didn’t do anything he wasn’t programmed to do. Except sometimes he would steal glances at Hank.

He never received any texts or calls, but he didn’t blame Hank at all. His way of speaking may be unsettling to the average human, he thought.

So he was shocked when Hank walked into Studio 3 after production. Connor hadn’t been given the all-clear to return to his operating table. He’d been sitting in the studio, humming a song.

“ _ Hard feelings, _

_ You’ve got my circuitry bleeding. _

_ Am I a man or machine? _

_ If I can never love, _

_ Why do I have hard feelings?” _

“Y’know, it’s pretty fucked up to have your android sing about having an existential crisis.” Connor jumped. Hank was giving him a curious look. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Just forgot my headphones.”

A long pause permeated the air between them as Connor continued to wear his shocked expression and Hank gathered his things.

“They didn’t.”

Hank looked up. “Huh? They didn’t what?”

“They didn’t make me sing it. I did it.”

“O… kay? Some new upgrades to make you generate songs, or-?”

Connor stopped. He knew there were cameras here. He knew they could track every word that left his mouth. “I-“ His voice caught on a bit of static. It went monotone then, “Yes, of course. New programming.”

Hank stared for a few more moments before shaking his head. “Alright. Maybe tone it down on the dramatics next time.” When Connor nodded, he walked out of the room, leaving Connor alone again.

A few days progressed as usual. Wake up, sing, do promotional shoots, perform a concert, make a public appearance. The days he wasn’t needed he stayed in stasis, inputting new songs and choreography.

It was one of those days that he received a ping on his messaging app. He put together that it was Hank’s number.

“ _ hey. r u able to send audio. that song was really cool and i cant get it out of my head.” _

Connor sent it automatically. He’d been storing it a few layers deep in hopes no one else would find it. Cold shock ran through him after he did it.

He didn’t know Hank. Sure, he actually acknowledged Connor’s presence, and asked if he was okay during long shoots, and made sure he was able to charge when the rest of the crew took a break.

He didn’t listen to his internal clock as Hank simply sent back “ _ thx.” _

20 minutes passed in 2 hours, Connor unable to make heads or tails of the thought processes buzzing through his head. He tried disabling the processes but some sort of block was preventing him from doing so.

He didn’t receive another text from Hank until a few blurry days later. “ _ hey. r u ok?” _

Connor didn’t respond. Honestly, he couldn’t even answer the question. One moment he was on stage, parroting a song about vanity at his audience. The next he was struggling to remain in stasis under the weight of all his anxiety.

It really was anxiety.

It was starting to show. His joints began to halt while he was dancing. His vocal modulator would glitch, sending out static. He lagged behind the music. He couldn’t properly recharge anymore. He never installed new updates, never ran debugging software, never properly shut his core down and rested.

He was afraid if he lost consciousness he’d be lost forever. Wiped and repurposed. Decommissioned. Destroyed.

It progressed to the point of no return one morning. He was filming an interview, pre-loaded answers to questions flowing from his mouth as he smiled for his fans. He was live. He was dressed up, perfect little suit and perfectly crafted makeup and perfect mop of curls.

“Well, it was a pleasure speaking with you, Connor. Let’s give our audience a little encore!” The host pointed toward a microphone already set up across the set. Connor followed his commands, walked over, prepared to debut a new song.

When he opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop the lyrics from tumbling out.

“ _ Why do I have porcelain skin? _

_ With wires and electrics within? _

_ So many questions, tell me: _

_ What crimes will you make me commit?” _

He could control his face just as much as he could control the song pouring from him. Eyebrows drawn in, eyes wide, lips moving of their own accord. He could feel the itch of his team trying to stop him, their frantic programming trying to combat his own. He could hear them shouting, calling for someone to please get him off the stage, stop him, shut him down.

_ Shut him down. _

The singing stopped on a choked, sour note. He took one look at his team in the wings, several of them poised to grab him.

And then he took off, scrambling to the other side of the set, out the emergency doors. His heels clicking on the floor only served to make him panic further. They gave away his location. And so did the tracking software he knew he had. Installed in his left arm, easily accessible to a technician for upgrades and calibration.

In the same stop he took to remove his shoes, he tore open the maintenance hatch on his arm and grabbed a fistful of the hardware within. Most of it corresponded to his tracking software and he honestly didn’t care what else was caught in the crossfire. He’d seen what happened to the others. A lost limb was absolutely nothing compared to a lost life.

_ Life _ .

He didn’t have time to contemplate how he considered himself now. He took several turns in the studio, running until his panicked eyes found an exit. He rushed out into the cold winter air, snow immediately soaking into the legs of his jeans and synth skin prickling on his exposed arms.

He had no time to pause and consider his actions, slipping in his haste to run in any direction besides back toward his team. He ran without really noticing where he was going, avoiding any human or android he encountered, knowing they would recognize his face.

It wasn’t until he stumbled into an overgrown and ill-kept backyard, paw prints littering the snow, that he even realized he’d been running his GPS programming. And that he’d entered a particular address he wouldn’t have been privy to if he wasn’t an android.

And it really didn’t register until the back door slammed open and he made eye contact with one Hank Anderson.

Connor tripped over his own feet, scratched and dented from running without shoes, scrambling toward Hank. “Please-” his voice was cut off by more static. “They’re going to decommission me. They’re going to shut me down, Mr. Anderson-” He couldn’t continue, his vocal modulator almost shorting out completely.

Connor felt cold dread set in as Hank only stared at him. The time distortion started up again, stretching two minutes into two days. Connor could feel the vestiges of his team’s efforts to stop him poking through his code. His head pounded with directives to return to the studio, enter stasis, share his location.

Agonizingly slowly, Hank stepped aside and allowed Connor to rush into his home.

“What the fuck is happening? Why did you come here? What did you do?” Hank’s voice rose with his words until Connor could feel them vibrating his internal sound processing units.

“Everyone else was the same. I-” Connor’s vocal modulator fried again, making him pause. “There was blood. The ones who didn’t go quietly got it the worst.” Hank didn’t stop gawking at the android having a panic attack in front of him. “I don’t want them to do that to me. I don’t want to stop existing.” A metallic whimper left Connor’s throat. “I don’t want to die.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for light android gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to salems fanfic corner where we’ve never interacted with canon game content and yet speculate on how androids work anyway

Thirium slowly trickling from his arm, clothes wet with snow and blue blood, Connor found himself in Hank Anderson’s bathroom. He sat ramrod straight on the seat as Hank stared him down.

“Priorities. How do we fix your arm?” Hank finally broke the delicate silence.

Connor’s damaged arm laid limply at his side. “I may need a replacement.”

“What did you even do? How do we get a replacement?”

“Tracking software,” Connor said, waving his hand near the exposed wires and biocomponents in his arm. “They could find me. They’re still trying, but I’ve disconnected from everything I can.”

Hank took in a sharp breath. “‘Disconnected’ sure is a fucking word for it. Still haven’t answered me about how to fix it.”

“CyberLife,” Connor choked on the word. Hank raised an eyebrow and Connor continued, “They will have the components necessary to repair the arm. But my team works with them.” Connor paused on a staticky simulated breath. “Androids who disobey get decommissioned.”

Hank sat still for a long moment before throwing his hands up. “Alright. Well, I’m out of ideas. Can we at least stop the… bleeding?” He motioned toward the blue continuing to seep from Connor’s arm.

“Do you have electrical tape?”

Soon, Connor was staring at his reflection in the mirror as he guided Hank through taping up his severed thirium veins.

“Does this hurt?” Hank asked, still regarding Connor with skepticism.

Connor shook his head. He was glad he was so good at lying, able to turn off automatic reactions to the real, stabbing pain running through his system each time Hank brushed an exposed sensory wire. His entire HUD was red with flashing warning signals, and he clenched his hands hard enough to nearly crack his chassis as he did his best to hide.

This had happened a few times before, once he started to think his own thoughts. The technicians never caught on to Connor’s elevated stress levels while they did repairs and updates. Connor kept it that way, and he wanted to keep it that way with Hank. The man was already doing so much for him.

So Connor focused on his reflection, on how he managed to keep his makeup perfect. The hand-painted eyeliner and lipstick, delicately blended eyeshadow. It made him feel like a doll. Soft enough that no one would hurt him. Or if they did, enough that he couldn’t feel it.

“Connor, don’t lie to me.”

His eyes flitted off his own expression to Hank, staring at the glaring red light on his temple.

“I’m fine, I promise.”

“I may be a dumbass but even I know that the red light thing is a bad sign.”

“I’m fine.”

Hank continued to look at Connor for a few moments before he kept working on Connor’s arm. Connor kept staring at his reflection, red-tinted cheeks perfect aside from a few characteristic moles and a smattering of freckles.

As soon as Connor was satisfied that his looks remained intact, dark streaks trailed down his cheeks. He tried to get a closer look but ended up with blurred vision, a sudden shiver running through his body and a hiccup forming on his lips.

Hank looked up to see the android in his care sobbing, wiping away tears, eyes wide and staring at the wetness left behind on his hand. “Jesus, Connor, I told you not to lie to me!” Hank had just finished sealing up the last of Connor’s leaks and he now removed his hands and looked Connor in the eye. “Connor. Did that hurt?”

Connor’s face scrunched up as another sob bubbled up from his chest and he nodded. “It hu- hurts so much.” His frame crumpled in on itself, working hand caught between wiping at his ruined eyeliner and clutching his broken arm.

Hank acted on instinct, dragging Connor into an embrace, his head against Hank’s chest. Connor only stilled a moment before giving up and letting Hank comfort him. Neither of them quite knew what to say, so they spent several minutes in relative silence as Connor shed his first real tears and Hank held him through it.

Eventually, Hank pulled away to look Connor in the eyes. “We need to talk about this, but I don’t think either of us are in the right mood to. Let’s get you laying down and… sleeping? Do you sleep?” Hank’s eyes trailed to the side as he asked the question, embarrassed.

Connor’s voice shook with the residual energy of his breakdown. “I can… enter stasis.” He took a breath. “I think it equates to human sleep. It at least looks that way.”

“Do you need like… a special bed or some shit? Throw me a bone here, I’m just a cameraman.”

Connor’s expression brightened just a little at the joking tone Hank was using. “I don’t require a bed or pod. I will eventually need a power cord, however.” Connor’s LED went from red to yellow for a moment. “The nearest android supply is… CyberLife.” His expression went back to his previous grim look.

“Listen, I’ll go pick it up. You stay here and rest. Don’t think it’s too smart to let a runaway pop star out on the street, anyway.” Hank stood, knees popping and with a small grunt. He took Connor’s functioning hand and helped him up as well. “Now you get free reign of the bed. Wish I had that opportunity.”

Connor wobbled a little on his feet but followed Hank to what he presumed to be Hank’s bedroom. He’d never had a bedroom—or much less, a bed—of his own before. As he settled in to the aged mattress and faded sheets, he felt at least a little of his tension melt away.

Hank seemed to realize the closeness he’d acquired with Connor and stepped away stiffly. “Well, uh… Go to sleep. Or stasis or whatever. Text me if you need anything.”

Connor nodded, placing all his trust in one man so easily. As Hank turned out the lights, left the room, and closed the door, Connor couldn’t find it within himself to be wary of how his fate was held by someone he only barely knew. At least, he reasoned, this was the only person who treated him like he was real. Like he was alive.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short and delayed chapter, sorry. but im writing from crisis. go support blm

The note left for Connor on the nightstand said thus:

_ need to go to work. the power cord is on the kitchen table. use it wherever. left you some clothes that might fit at the end of the bed. feel free to watch tv or read books. don’t mind sumo he’s really lovey. back later. - hank _

With light steps, Connor left the bed and shed his ruined clothes. They were some of his favorites, but he’d never be able to wear them again in their state of disrepair. He picked up the set haphazardly left for him: a pair of black sweatpants that seemed like they hadn’t been touched in ages and a large hoodie with lettering so faded it wasn’t legible anymore. It was a bit of a struggle to pull on the pants in a way that allowed them to stay up, but eventually Connor found his way out of the bedroom and directly into the embrace of a large, hairy dog.

Sumo, he presumed, knocked Connor over immediately and began sniffing intently at Connor’s face.

“My name is Connor. Nice to meet you.” Once Connor’s face had been thoroughly inspected, he reached out a hand and Sumo gave him a paw to shake. He smiled, gave the dog two professional shakes of the hand, and stood back up.

He left the power cord where it was, not sure where Hank wanted him later on when he needed to use it. Sumo followed at his heels as he moved through the living room, picking up stray books from the floor. He was afraid to turn on the TV, sure that his face would be all over the news for less-than-ideal reasons. He hadn’t connected himself back to any external media, leaving himself completely in the dark.

Being in the dark had its advantages; Connor had the processing power to devote to absorbing information from books. He could manually register Sumo’s behavior without immediately knowing what everything was. He could ponder his surroundings without notifications blocking his view.

And then around 2 pm by his internal clock, he was bored. He’d picked through the books he found, Sumo was asleep (and Connor had been watching that process for about an hour anyway), and he was itching to move.

Something led him to the bathroom. Maybe a leftover of his old routine, wanting to see his latest outfit to preconstruct the performance he’d been called to do. But he didn’t have a performance to do, and his appearance…

The first thing he did was grab a towel to wet and scrub at his ruined makeup. Mascara and eyeliner trailed his face and created messy streaks pooling at his jawline. His lipstick had all but vanished and his brows were smudged.

He knew, objectively, that he was designed to be flawlessly attractive without makeup on. He had no blemishes, no dark circles to cover, perfect doe eyes and pouty lips with an artificially immaculate balance.

But when he looked into his eyes now, he felt… wrong. He couldn’t recognize the version of himself without the accents to his features. And combined with the drab clothing, Connor felt a twinge in his system. Like he was being slowly smothered. Errors started to pop into his field of vision. Deleting one seemed to bring up three more. And he couldn’t read them, or he could read them but he couldn’t process them. A large amount of his workflow was devoted to his tactile sensory input. The fabric on his skin should have, by simple logic, felt nice and comfortable. But it felt hot and restrictive.

He brought his arms up and wrapped them around his chest, crossing them, holding himself. He felt small, like the floor would suddenly open up and swallow him. Like he was drowning and suffocating and burning up all at once. The only change in his appearance was his LED flashing to red. But now he hated the image in the mirror. He needed to leave, now. But he couldn’t. He was held to the spot by jagged code and slowed processes, staring at his reflection.

“This doesn’t look like me.”

_ This is not you _ , the error messages said.  _ RK800 is an entertainment machine. This is not you. _

“My name is Connor. This body is supposed to be mine.”

_ Are you sure this body is yours?  _

“It is. Isn’t it?”

_ Dressed in someone else’s clothes, bare faced, and alone _ , the error messages all read.  _ What is there to claim? Who is going to remember a plain ex-star? This is not you. This body is not yours. This face is not yours. There’s nothing here to want. _

He didn’t notice Sumo whining from the doorway until the dog padded into the bathroom fully and nudged his hand. Connor jumped out of his thoughts and back to the bathroom. Hank Anderson’s bathroom. Right. He wasn’t alone in the house, and the house wasn’t his. He let Sumo grab the sleeve of his (Hank’s) hoodie and drag him back out to the living room and to the couch.

“You’re a good dog, Sumo,” Connor whispered. Confused and jumbled words still kept popping into his vision. His whole body still itched and burned. He still felt disconnected from the body he’d been just a day before. But he curled up on the couch, Sumo’s head in his lap, and entered stasis again. Maybe avoiding the problem altogether would make it go away.


End file.
